Spring has sprung

The grass is rizz

I wonder where

The flowers is…

Lester W Damron

As I write this, it’s not Spring, but I was reminded of Spring and warmer weather this morning at 5:45 am when I sat down at my laptop and reserved a campsite for August. 

Not just any campsite, and not in just any campground. I have been camping every year of my life (with the exception of 3 or 4 summers) in this particular Oregon state park since I was eight years old. 

So, that’s about 60 summers of camping. 

In my earliest memories of camping at Cape Lookout State Park, our family would arrive at the park in the evening, roll up to the main gate, and request a trailer site. Trailer sites were in scarce supply, and RVs weren’t even heard of, yet. My mom would hop out of the car and register us to occupy a tent site for the first night with the always available offer of “Check out what is available in the morning, put something in the site you want to reserve it, and come back here and register for the site. Then, you can move right in.

Mom would jump out of bed early the next morning and scout the campground for a departing camper. The “something” she put in the site was usually me–sitting in a lawn chair, blinking blearily in the early morning light. Not always, though. There were mornings when I woke up to the sounds of the trailer being hitched to the car, and my mom and dad moving us, while still in our beds, to our new campsite. 

There’s nothing so predictable and inevitable as change.

Fast forward a few years and the park began to require reservations made in advance.

All very civilized, though. Mom would write a lengthy handwritten letter to the helpful park rangers requesting a trailer site for as many nights as we were allowed. As time went on, she included a letter from my older sister’s family, requesting a reservation before or after the one mom reserved. I believe there was a stipulation at one point requiring us to exit the park for a day or so before we could return and begin a new reservation. 

The peak experience of making reservations in this manner was achieved one summer when 3 different branches of our family converged on one (previously peaceful) campsite in the D Loop. 

My mom, aided by two of her sons-in-law, was working through the tedious task of “leveling” the trailer on its supports and plugging in the sewer, water, and electrical hook ups. My dad was sitting by the fire telling stories with my older brother who, not-at-all-a-camper, was also sitting in a chair, having dropped by to tell stories as well. I’m sure there were at least 2 small dogs involved in the proceedings, at least one of them prone to barking at everything and anyone who might walk by. I was putting up a small tent for Steve and me, and my younger sister was doing likewise for she and her husband. Our campsite was thus a somewhat chaotic hub of activity, to say the least. Suddenly, an official pickup pulled up to our site and a park ranger launched himself into the middle of things. “You’ll all have to leave!” he shouted. “This campsite is reserved.” 

“I know it’s reserved,” my mom responded, calmly. “I reserved it.”

“No!” he responded. “This campsite is reserved for Steve Allen. He’s a construction worker!”

Steve and I looked at each other. “It’s Ernie,” I said, quietly. 

I’m not sure how we kept from laughing. 

Maybe we didn’t.

My brother, ever ready with a witty remark intended to cause more confusion, said “Steve, just give the man $20. That’s what you do with these civil servants.”

In all the ensuing noise and conversation, I don’t think Ernie heard him say that.

At least I hope not. 

But I am sure that’s when the laughter spilled over. 

This particular park ranger was one Steve and I had encountered the year before when we camped in the park by ourselves. We’d pulled in, late at night, requesting a tent site. 

“Do you need e-lec-tricity?” was our greeting from the ranger. He sounded robotic, and we had to have him repeat the question. 

“No.” We managed to respond, and he asked us which loop in the camp we preferred and assigned us to a campsite.

Throughout that camping trip, we saw Ernie (as we decided to call him and not his real name) on his “rounds” throughout the campground. He would appear in a small off-road vehicle, driven by another ranger. Ernie was equipped with a clipboard, and we could see him checking off campsites, campers, and issuing various instructions. To the unwary, having camped overnight without a reservation, this meant an early-morning wake-up call from Ernie.

Why Ernie? Based on that first encounter, Steve and I named him Ernest (Earnest) D. N. C. (for Does Not Compute). We had decided that Ernie’s favorite season at Cape Lookout was Discovery Season, when few campers were present. 

Fortunately for all of us involved in the chaotic D Loop experience, my mom had the presence of mind to have brought a copy of her letter requesting the reservations. She’d carefully made a series of them including one for my brother-in-law (the road construction worker), for herself and my dad, and for Steve and me. We sorted it out, but Ernie walked away shaking his head at us.

And so, there I was this morning, pondering past reservation-making and sitting with my finger poised over my laptop keyboard, ready to punch a button “book this site” as the second hand on my watch crept toward 6 am, when the site and the dates I wanted it for became available.

Somehow, I see Ernie’s fingerprints all over this “new and improved” reservation system.